Michaelli’s footsteps echoed through the stone corridors as he made his way out of the chamber, each step heavier than the last. The shadows on the walls seemed to close in around him, flickering in the dim light like haunting memories of a broken childhood, leaving him feeling small and vulnerable once more.
His chest tightened at the thought of the boy—fragile and afraid—who had clung to his thoughts. In the child’s eyes, he recognized the same fear, the same yearning for safety that had haunted him as a child. But Michaelli knew better than to indulge in pity; it had no place in the empire he sought to build.
As he ascended the stairs leading out of the underground chamber, Nixon emerged from the shadows like a specter of loyalty, his face grave but composed. "The operation was a success, Your Highness. All the prisoners have been freed, and Lord Terado has been taken into custody. What are your orders regarding his punishment?"
Michaelli paused, the weight of the boy’s gaze pressing down on him, memories of his mother and an unyielding sense of responsibility clawing at his insides. He clenched his fists, forcing himself to focus. Mercy was a luxury his world could not afford—not for the weak, and certainly not for those who exploited others.
“Make an example of him,” Michaelli finally said, his voice icy and devoid of emotion. “Let it be known that Terado, the Prince will die at dawn. Let the higher-ups hear of his crimes along with his head.” He kept walking, the hardened resolve in his expression leaving Nixon to carry out the order without question.
But even as he gave the command, the haunting image of the boy wouldn’t leave him. He could feel the anger gnawing at him—the same rage that had consumed him when he was a child. His mother’s death, her choices—it was all there, bleeding into every decision he made. No matter how much power he amassed, it never healed the emptiness left behind.
As Michaelli exited the residence and stepped into the night air, the cold breeze cut through his coat, but it did little to clear his mind. He gazed up at the dark sky, the stars obscured by the ever-present clouds of the empire’s looming struggles.
"Your Highness," Nixon spoke cautiously, walking up beside him. "About the boy... and his mother. What shall we do with them?"
Michaelli’s golden eyes flickered again, the question striking deeper than it should have. He could hear the unspoken suggestion in Nixon's words—spare them, take them under your protection, perhaps even as a token of mercy. But mercy, to Michaelli, was a slippery slope. He had already chosen his path—one where compassion was a weakness to be exploited.
"They are nothing," Michaelli muttered, his voice distant as he stared into the shadows. "Send them to the northern border. The boy can join the others being relocated. They’ll find work there. As for the woman… she can serve in the outer provinces."
Nixon bowed and moved to relay the orders, but the hesitation lingered in the prince's chest. He should have been immune to such feelings by now. And yet…
As Michaelli turned away, his hand instinctively went to the dagger at his side—the same blade his mother had forced him to hold when she ended her life. His fingers brushed the hilt, cold and familiar, a reminder of the cost of love. He gritted his teeth, forcing the memories back where they belonged.
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There was no room for such distractions.
With one last glance toward the darkened sky, Michaelli set his jaw and walked into the shadows of the empire he ruled—where love was but a forgotten relic, and power was all that remained.
Michaelli’s eyes gleamed as he contemplated the road ahead. Prince Terado was merely a pawn in a much larger game—one that Michaelli had been playing long before tonight. He had successfully removed his majesty's shield. The empire was rife with dirt, its roots stretching all the way to the emperor’s throne. Terado’s capture would effectively send a ripple of fear through the ranks at the emperor's side, but it was only the beginning of the storm he was about to unleash.
Standing at the threshold of Terado’s estate, Michaelli allowed a slow, deliberate breath to escape his lips. His vengeance had been set in motion years ago; the seeds of revolution planted in the shadows. The empire he sought to rebuild required more than just power—it needed to be purified, cleansed of those who allowed the suffering of the innocent and exploited the weak.
And none were guiltier than the emperor himself. In order to fight a dragon, you must be a dragon yourself.
He knew that behind Terado stood more powerful figures—dukes, ministers, and even the emperor’s most trusted advisors. But Terado’s fall would serve a dual purpose: to show them that no one, not even the emperor’s brother, was untouchable. The empire, once a symbol of fear, would begin to rot from within, and Michaelli would be there, at every step, to guide its downfall.
Turning sharply, Michaelli addressed Nixon, who awaited orders at his side. “Terado is merely the start,” Michaelli said, his voice low and calm, yet brimming with dark intensity. “His execution will send a message, but I want more than just fear. I want his allies to scramble, to feel their grip slipping. And when they fall, they will fall hard.”
Nixon bowed deeply. “I understand, Your Highness. I’ll ensure the news spreads throughout the empire by sunrise.”
Michaelli nodded, his eyes narrowing as he thought of the empire’s power structure, the web of deceit that had been spun over generations. "Let them think this is an isolated incident," he continued. "Let them believe Terado is just a victim of his own greed. We’ll strike again, but not too soon. They mustn't see the pattern—not yet. Inform the rest of the crimson commanders and disperse to their own territory; continue to be my eyes in everything."
A cold breeze swept across the courtyard, rustling the edges of his coat. Michaelli’s mind turned to the emperor, his father—an embodiment of everything Michaelli had come to despise. The bloodline, who had enforced the cruel laws that had left countless lives in ruin. Michaelli's hands clenched into fists, the thought of his father’s eventual downfall driving him forward.
"The emperor," Nixon ventured cautiously, "do you have a timeline for when you will… confront him?"
Michaelli smiled, though there was no warmth in it. "When the time is right. He believes himself untouchable, but he forgets that the foundation of his empire is fragile. All it takes is one crack, and everything crumbles. For now, I will let him feel secure in his throne. But every move I make is one step closer to his end."
The prince’s gaze drifted toward the horizon, his vision of the future clear in his mind. He would strip the empire down, piece by piece, until there was nothing left of the old regime. He would replace the rot with something new, something strong. But first, he had to break the chains that held it together—starting with those who stood beside the emperor.
He turned to Nixon once more, his eyes gleaming with a sharp edge. "We will target the others next—those who think they are safe because of their titles, their wealth. Begin gathering information on the Duke of Arcadiel and Lord Faustus. Their time will come soon."
Nixon nodded, his expression resolute. "It will be done, Your Highness. About the historian—would it be dangerous to let him near you? It's not confirmed yet whether he's one of the emperor's people or not."
"That one is clever. It will benefit me more if I keep him near me. One thing is for sure, he's not one of the emperor's. I already have a plan for him," Michaelli said, dismissing the topic and walking away from Terado's residence, leaving the rest of the warriors to plant false evidence and clean the residence.
Michaelli’s mind swirled with thoughts of revenge and the empire he would reshape from the ashes. His steps grew steady, his resolve stronger. Terado's fall was just the start of a long, calculated campaign—a war waged from within, against the very bloodlines that held the empire together.
But no one could stop him. Michaelli had learned from the shadows, watching as power corrupted everything it touched. He had survived a life of suffering; his mother’s death was both his deepest wound and his driving force. Now, he would ensure that no one—not even the emperor himself—could stand in his way. He was beyond saving. His hands and blood were already tainted, and he would drag everyone into the hell he was bound for, leaving no one behind.
As he walked toward the awaiting carriage, the echoes of his footsteps fading into the night, Michaelli's mind settled on one truth: each piece of the empire would fall, and in the end, only he would remain standing. He would bring an end but also create a beginning—a beginning where someone like him would never come to exist again.